


these sacred things

by orphan_account



Category: American Horror Story, American Horror Story: Apocalypse, American Horror Story: Coven, American Horror Story: Murder House
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst and Romance, Angst and Tragedy, Awkward Romance, Canonical Character Death, Childhood Trauma, Developing Relationship, Dreams and Nightmares, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Romance, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Humor, Idiots in Love, Inspired by Orpheus and Eurydice (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Love/Hate, Michael Langdon Deserves Better, Michael is a Little Shit, Mild Language, Minor Zoe Benson/Madison Montgomery, Soft Michael Langdon, Tragic Romance, mallory is definitely a gardener, this isn’t a happy ending, yes i know he was probably evil at this point but i don’t care
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-13
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:47:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24166828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Mallory is a witch. Michael is...something.When what she expects to find is danger, she instead finds something much more beautiful.
Relationships: Michael Langdon & Mallory, Michael Langdon/Mallory
Comments: 16
Kudos: 33





	1. unconventional greetings

Mallory was unsure of why Cordelia was so adamant she be there to welcome Langdon.

She, frankly, had no desire to be there. If she had the option to hide in her bed with her protective spells, close her eyes until she was sure she would not be disrupted, she would have. In the open, here, at the bottom of the stairs, all she had was her anxiety bare to everyone else. 

How were they so calm? 

They, after all, had been the ones to inject her with this fear. When she had first been told of Michael Langdon two months ago, she had initially been curious, in awe of what they said he was capable of. She had never been one to judge, to assume the worst, and so she had always been gentle when mentioning him. 

Cordelia had corrected her after a while. She wasn’t exactly in the inner circle of the witches, having been at the Robichaux Academy for merely a year, but she was told straight-up that they were essentially dealing with the Antichrist. 

Now, they were having dinner with him, and welcoming him into their home. 

She had been nicknamed after the doe she had saved, and even in her mind, it was easy to see why. It wasn’t just the way she looked, with brown eyes, brown hair, a fondness for flowers and pretty jewels. It was her innocence that made her so small, so delicate. 

Her father had taken advantage of that, and she had learnt, a long time ago, that she would have to balance naivety with strength. If the strongest women she knew had already given in to dangerous forces, then she couldn’t let go of her own strength. 

“He’s late. Wouldn’t you think the Antichrist would have an in-built clock?” 

Madison brought her cigarette to her mouth, shooting a sour look to the door. She wondered, absentmindedly, whether the two would hit it off—after all, she had been brought back from the afterlife by his hand. Would the she-devil and the literal devil hook up? Mallory didn’t even want to think about it. 

“Patience, girls. Please.” 

The Supreme’s voice was weaker than normal, yet that was precisely what made them quiet. If anything had brought them together, it was their respect for Cordelia Goode, for what she had brought them each. She knew the rumours, and she felt the looks from every corner of the room when she walked in. 

They believed she was the next Supreme—and, in order to fulfill their beliefs, she would have been killing the only mother-figure she had. She had wished, in the silence of the nights, that she had a choice. They needed her, much more than an inexperienced witch who was running from her past. 

Zoe had been the one to comfort her, but even with the others arm’s wrapped around her, she hadn’t felt the warmth she had hoped for. 

She was brought out of her stupor when, finally, the door opened. The sunlight at first was blinding, but she heard him before she saw him, and that was all she needed. 

He had been crying. Though she had expected everyone to keep their distance, to maintain some level of caution, it was Queenie that rushed forward and grabbed him, squeezing him in a hug. 

The majority of everyone else watched with agape mouths. No one had expected him to come alone, much less so...unofficially. It was perhaps the oddest situation she could’ve imagined, yet her line of sight focused primarily on whatever was unfolding before her. 

“It’s..nice...to welcome you..” 

The change was instantaneous as she muttered her words, trying as hard as she could to be welcoming, to be kind. She saw his head poke up outside of the vice grip of multiple witches, and he looked at her. 

“Mallory?” 

He was alert, and as he looked at her, as if he was memorising her face, and she saw him. Really saw him. 

As a child, she had never really been attracted to anyone. Not boys, girls, celebrities. She had no interest, and love had never crossed her mind until she was asked about it by one of her classmates. It was only until she was maybe sixteen that she had started to pay attention to a select few—and, regardless of her self-confidence or kindness, they never seemed that interested either. The boys she had doted on had been ordinary and average, and she had been content to settle for that. 

Michael was in a completely different category. She didn’t know why she didn’t focus on his words, the recognition in his face as if she was his lost puppy, the fact that he knew her name. No, for only a moment, she studied him. He was young, at least, no older than her—short, boyish hair, as if he had never grown fully. As much as he was unkempt, he almost seemed as if he had been sent down to earth, some gorgeous creature that had fallen from the heavens. 

It only registered in her mind later that it was the truth. She had learnt a long time ago that the demonic were the most beautiful of all, and the angels were the terrifying ones. 

Whether he was angelic or not, she would have forgotten everything if she had not been, essentially, rugby tackled. 

“Mallory.”

He was holding her, and her first instincts to run away finally kicked in. It was strangely tempting to lean into his touch, but she felt disgusted at the strength, as if he had some claim on her already. She pushed out, hitting his head back only slightly so she could wrench herself out of his grip, falling back onto the floor. 

Cordelia was the one to interject, and her normally placid features were concerned, even angry; yet, above all, confusion. To those who didn’t know her, it was easy to assume she was disappointed—yet to everyone else, she was furious. 

Michael was wheeled out, not fighting back, and she felt a hand help her up: Coco’s. She gladly leaned into it, and wobbled slightly when she stood straight. Her intake of breath was telling enough of her sudden exhaustion, and she felt all of as if she should roll up and sleep. 

It was Madison who spoke. 

“He has got a complete hard on for you, Mal.” 

If she was stronger, she would have refuted, but she just couldn’t. Maybe that was the truth, and maybe he was just crazy enough to be physical with her, but she felt as if there was something she was missing. He recognised her. He knew her. 

From far away, she thought she could hear Cordelia in hushed tones, but there were no words from Michael. She remembered why he had come—that Miss Mead had been sentenced to death, that he had grieved her and finally, given into the Supremes efforts to help him. Perhaps he was still in the motions of grief. 

In psychology, she had learnt of the Kubler-Ross model. It entailed the seven stages of grief: shock, denial, anger, bargaining, depression, testing, and acceptance. He could easily be stuck in any of them. 

Or he was just a reflection of his birth. A monster. 

Only a few of the younger girls asked her why he had done what he had done. The rest simply stayed quiet, and closer to her than normal. It was easy enough to excuse herself to her room, blame it on the tiredness that practically seeped through her body. 

She washed her face and sighed, removing her flower crown and slipping into her nightgown. The darkness in her room was something she was usually fine with, but now, it felt eerie, as if it held the devil and his son. Mallory could imagine him, at night, creeping into her room, holding not just her arms but, this time, her neck. He must have known how vulnerable she was, and he was ten times stronger than her, Supreme or not. 

After almost two hours of restlessness in her bed, she gave in, switching the lights back on and turning to reading. It was only as she leaned over to grab her book that she saw the purple blotches on her arm, somewhat identifiable as the shape of fingers. He had grabbed her with such desperation, such need, but even she knew that there was no malice in his action. Simply put, he must not have known his own strength. 

As much as she felt disgusted that he had left a lasting mark on her, there was the smallest inkling of pride. He had looked at her, had held her, not any of the other girls. She had never been insecure, yet even as she was rumoured to be the Supreme, it was easy, more than easy, to be overshadowed by all the other girls. 

Her thoughts drifted back to him. Not his actions or his sinister nature. She still could not believe the way he looked—seraphic, angelic, she could not tell. Technically, he had grown ten years in one day, and she saw it in some of his mannerisms; he was somewhere between a boy and a man, leaning towards the latter. 

God, she couldn’t wrap her head around him. Everything was abnormal, and she had only seen him for two minutes of her life to be able to pick up on it. The reality that he would most likely be staying with them made her feel as if she would never be able to sleep again, and she could only hope that he would rectify his mistake and leave her alone. 

At some point, she fell asleep. For the first time in a long time, she had no dreams.


	2. sleeping beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sudden bout of amnesia makes Mallory doubt Michael’s intentions. She turns to kindness to make him feel welcome.

Mallory woke to birdsong.

She felt more clarity than the day before. Zoe had told her that sleep was to a witch, a complete and total refresh—at the start of her stay at Robichaux’s, she had laughed it off. It was much later that she began to dream of her peers, of the end, and she had envied her ideology, had wished so desperately that it was true. 

It was a strange omen, she supposed, that a peaceful night came after such a hectic day. 

Her initial approach had been to stay in bed, carry on reading her book, try to get someone to bring her a coffee: but the sunlight spoke of different things. She rarely missed a summer day, had saved her laziness for the winter, when rain was common. 

Tending the gardens was tedious, but she believed it was worthwhile. No one else was really up to the job, though she could expect to see Myrtle from time to time, red hair visible from almost anywhere. All in all, she could expect to be in tune with the earth. Her magic had come from it, after all, and she liked to imagine it would strengthen her. 

Slowly, she got up. Perhaps some would say she seemed childish wearing her crown day after day, but she had lost the ability to care a long time ago. It was Misty who had convinced her to wear it so often, who had constantly brought her up. If anything could be said about their Coven, it was that they were all pretty in tune with their individuality. 

She hoped that Queenie had cooked, or perhaps Coco. The reigns of food passed down to them on a daily schedule—sometimes, one particularly skilled person would choose to cook for much longer than their allocated time, for which they were all grateful. 

Her nose led the way, yet she remembered, drifting down the staircase, the true events of yesterday. It had been easy to distract herself in museful thoughts, and it was only as she made her way to the dining room that she wondered if Michael was there. No one had spoken to her about what would happen to him in the night, and she had a small hope that he had been kicked out. 

Common sense had taught her better. Cordelia wouldn’t let him out of her sight, to be recruited by another silly satanic church or, worse, let him find his own church. The last thing they needed was the end of days. 

She was pleasantly surprised when all she saw was friendly, familiar faces. Her relief doubled when she noticed Queenie at the grill, flipping pancakes, and she felt at ease as she sat down in her chair. The only awkward glances were from Madison, and maybe a look of concern from Cordelia—but she brushed it off, trying to focus on eating her breakfast. 

Mallory was brought out of her food induced haze when Misty nudged her, and she realised she had been looking at one spot with particularly glazed eyes. She had the reputation of being lively, the keeper of the conversation. 

“Thank you, Queenie.” 

The older woman smiled down at her, finally bringing the rest of the food to the table and sitting down herself. Almost instantaneously, bubbles of chatter exploded, and it seemed almost as if everything was okay. She wondered, distantly, where Micheal was, but it did not matter. Why should she care? As long as Cordelia was there, her safety was assured. 

It took almost an hour before she had finished—her plate formerly piled high with crepes, fresh fruit, bacon, and whatever else she could get her hand on. Only a few of them were left at that point, with most of the younger girls leaving to explore town, and the elders surely having business. The gardens seemed empty, and the sight of the rose bushes and plants were enticing enough for her to neglect what was supposed to be a short class in the morning. 

The sun on her skin was welcoming, and she relaxed for a moment, closing her eyes and still seeing the glow. Her first approach was to cut the weeds—the most unappealing part of her routine—and she leaned down, trimming each one with concentration and humming a small tune to herself as she went. It wasn’t uncommon for wildlife to flock to the Academy, and she watched contently as deers played out of the corner of her sight. 

“Mallory?” 

The voice sounded like it had come from the wind, and she swayed round, dress caught on the grass. She was, this time, wrong—Michael stood before her as she knelt, crossing and uncrossing his arms in nervousness. His face was laced with nothing of the day before, and more anxious than anything. 

“What are you doing here? Did Cordelia let you talk to me?” 

She had never been a malicious person, but she had to practically spit the words. His body blocked her view of both the sun and the deer, and she had an urge to just ask him to move out of the way. 

“I—I wanted to apologise. For yesterday.” 

The boyish quality she had pondered yesterday was so very present now—if she had not been angry, she would have found him adorable, would have wanted to swoop him up in her arms. She even felt the small desire now, to lean into his apology and get to know him. This monster. This human. 

Mallory took a breath in, and turned back around to the weeds, eyeing the flowers to the left of her. She was feigning ignorance, and she hoped he could pick up on the awkward situation and leave her alone. When he did not, after nearly a minute, she sharply exhaled, wheeling around again. 

“How did you know my name?” 

Her curiosity that she had tried to bury was seething, and secretly glad he had not picked up on her hints. She tried not to focus on his face, on his features that seemed moulded by some divine being, and so lowered her gaze to his shoulder. He was wearing a sweater, a far cry from the formal suit he had been wearing the day before. It was strange to see him so casual. 

His eyes fixed on her made it hard not to return the glare, yet she persevered, waiting for his answer as he struggled. She noticed his arms were now swinging from side to side. 

“I don’t remember.” 

At this, she laughed. Before she could retaliate in mirth, mock him for what was clearly a lie, he frowned and spoke again.

“Cordelia knows. I don’t remember any of last night.” 

Mallory stopped, as did he. The wind had slowed, and for once, she didn’t have any venom for him. It wasn’t like her, anyway—the closest thing she had had to a fight recently was a debate with Madison on how wrong it was to kill someone. Of course, she hadn’t expected her to be serious, but who really knew? She knew that almost all of the original witches had done things to survive. 

“You don’t remember? Not any of it?” 

If Cordelia knew, and if she believed him, then he couldn’t have been lying—yet, regardless of magic, there seemed to be no explanation for his sudden amnesia, much less for what he had forgotten. She could very clearly see this boy in front of her wasn’t insane, all she could see was sincerity and that boyish frown. It was hard to imagine him hurting a fly. 

“I am sorry. Really.” 

She would be too, if she had tackled someone and forgotten it. Much less a stranger. It almost made her want to laugh that the Antichrist, the man who was made to bring the end of the world, was so sorry to a witch—who had once been his sworn enemy merely a month ago. How had the devil not perfected his own child? How could he give his son this kindness? 

“It’s okay, Michael. I don’t mind.” 

Relief was now his, and it was obvious. He seemed more carefree at her words, and she wondered how much he had been affected by the mystery. It was easier to look at him now, and she gave a cautious stare, taking him in. 

He had pretty blue eyes. 

She realised that she had been looking at him for perhaps too long, and cleared her throat, turning around once again and reaching for her scissors, moving slightly to the flowers. The roses reminded her of her test at Robichaux—how she had been told to change the colour, and had, instead, made butterflies. Ever since that day, Cordelia had watched over her, had given her advice, had helped her magic. 

Then, the deer. When she had first healed it, she had not felt the audience watching her, had not even realised what exactly she was doing. All she wanted to do was help it—she had not realised it was dead, nor that she had brought it back in a way no one else had. By her touch, she had not reversed just it’s wounds, but the toll time had taken on it. 

A sharp pain jolted her. She looked down at her hand, wincing at the bright red painting her skin. It had hurt more than it should have, and she noticed it was deep, the scissors having dug in. Her first thought was to go back inside, but she had forgotten in her daze that she still had company. 

“Are you okay?” 

His voice was small, practically a squeak. She nodded, but her laboured breathing was too telling—she didn’t like blood, and it really was a deep cut, striking through the entirety of her palm. Her attempt to put on a calm face was a dismal one, and she was sure she had probably gone pale at the sight of it. 

As she started to lean up, he crouched down, and held her hand. 

Mallory gasped, engulfed in shock at his sudden touch; she expected to feel uncomfortable, but the warmth from his hands was not just physical. It flooded through her arm, whispering of comfort and healing, and she couldn’t help but close her eyes and forget why she felt this way, forget who was doing this to her. 

When she opened them, she knew the cut wasn’t there anymore...but she couldn’t check. He still had his hand clasped tightly around hers, eyes wide with some sort of emotion. She felt wide awake, lost in some sort of trance, and she wished desperately that he wouldn’t let go. 

He broke his hold. 

Mallory sat, mouth agape, as the unidentifiable emotion on his face instantly turned to fear. The peace was gone; even the wind had picked up, brushing through the tall grass and trees. She realised that she needed to say something, that she couldn’t just act like a complete fool when he had done her a favour. 

“Thanks.” 

Her try to sound grateful was pitiful, and she imagined he might think of her as an idiot. She couldn’t help but brush her fingers over where had once been an open wound, mind whirring to figure out how he had done that sort of magic. Healing was easy, yes, but it wasn’t just something that could be done through a quick hand hold—much less with that sort of feeling accompanying it. 

She had never felt anything like it, not once in her life. It was hard to imagine now that the sensation was gone. 

Michael nodded politely, but the intimacy had gone. There was nothing left to do but walk away, and she watched as he wandered back to the building until he was out of her line of sight. She couldn’t tell if her chest had been crushed by a weight or if the weight had just left, and as much as she tried to ground herself in nature, she couldn’t concentrate. 

His hands were smooth, she remembered. Cold. 

They had held her much more gently than she had before. As if she was glass he might break. 

In his arms, she had been vulnerable. He was stronger than her, she was sure of it, and she wondered whether he really could break her. Whether she would let him.

She stayed outside until the sun set, lost in her half-formed daydreams. Most of the time, she couldn’t even remember what she had been thinking of, only that it had been about him. 

What was wrong with her? 

Maybe someone could help her make sense of it all—she could suck up her pride and admit she couldn’t get Michael Langdon out of her head, that she kept imagining his hands, his eyes, that she had let him touch her. 

She imagined Cordelia telling him how she felt. Gods, it had probably all been a misunderstanding—she was just touch starved, and Mallory could easily imagine he was not. How would he be? Barely anyone would turn him down, and she had been needy enough to hope he would touch her again. 

All he had done was heal her. That was all he had done. It meant nothing. 

By the evening, she had managed to distract herself enough to watch a movie with the other girls. They had had a vote, one of which ended with the tie between Pulp Fiction and Titanic: the Tarantino film winning. 

She was happy there was so many of them. They had all told her of how it used to be; before witches had made their public debut, there were barely any that weren’t in hiding. The few that weren't—including Zoe, Misty, Madison, and Queenie—had each lost their fights, and had all experienced death in their own way. 

Micheal had brought three of them back, and, in some ways, they owed him. 

“John Travolta is an absolute STUD.” 

Mallory laughed at Madison’s observation, having half a mind to call her out for her taste. She passed the popcorn bowl to Coco, resting her head on her best friend’s shoulders and forgetting her powers. Her gurgle and demonic like declaration of the calories made her snort. 

“The calorie counter bitch has done it again!” 

The blonde heiress flipped off the actress. They had always had a sort of feud—but who didn’t have a feud with Madison Montgomery? She made it hard for anyone to like her, and it had become common knowledge a long time ago about the former love triangle between her, Kyle, and Zoe. 

Kyle himself, when it was revealed he had killed her, had been left with the identity of someone else, believing himself to be Harry Alexander. This was six years before Mallory had even known she was a witch, but she saw the heartbreak in both of the girls from time to time. 

The door to the lounge creaked slightly, and only a few turned from the film to look. 

“Hi, Michael!” 

Misty’s overly joyful voice was loud and bright, and someone had remembered to pause the movie so that all attention could be on the newcomer. 

“Hello.” 

He had an arm wrapped around his neck, toying with the small of his back in what she presumed was a nervous habit, remembering he had done the same thing in the gardens. She looked at him—he looked away.

Making his way to the kitchen, she decided to get up herself. She was sure he heard her feather light footsteps behind his own, but he didn’t acknowledge her until she was directly in front of him, standing by the oven. 

Her hesitance before had gone now that her clarity had returned, and she tucked a strand lock of hair behind her ear, trying to make him feel welcome, to get rid of the tension that had been there from the first time she had met him. 

“Come sit with us.” 

Mallory whispered gently, gesturing to the sofa just out of sight. It was much more reassuring that she was now level in height with him, rather than the inherent dominance of him standing over her. She saw nothing more than a boy who was scared of her peers—she tried to put herself in his footsteps, but didn’t need to, remembering perfectly well how terrified she had been when she had first been here.

“Please.” 

He shook his head, a minute response, and simply went to pouring himself a glass of water. She glared at his back for a moment, frowning, then leaned forward to stand next to him, leaning on the counter. Before she could carry on with her persuasion, he wheeled around, an imitation of what she had done just earlier that day. 

“Leave it, Mal.” 

The first thing that registered—he had a nickname for her.

Terrified of a sudden rage, she pulled back, even as his tone was merely telling that he was pissed off and nothing worse. His eyes looked slightly sorry—but they shone, too, with anger and sadness and pity. He had looked at her in so many different ways in merely two days, but she wondered which emotion he felt when he thought of her. 

If he thought of her. 

Mumbling an apology, she again watched him exit the room: leaving her with her heart in her chest and her hands clutched by her sides. The slam of the door was loud even from downstairs—against her will, she winced away from the sound, a ricochet through the walls. 

When she returned to the movie, she was given the same stares as when she had always walked into a room. As much as she just wanted to be a normal person, minus the lack of magic, she was almost always the centre of attention—second to the Supreme, and, now, Michael. 

She wondered if he knew what she was capable of, but she doubted she knew the extent of his powers either. Perhaps he could click his fingers and the bombs would find their targets, hellfire raining down on them all. 

The idea of telling someone about her feelings seemed stupid now—they would just mock her, call her out for her daddy issues, for thinking about the man that was probably going to end up killing one of them. She herself knew she was stupid, and doubted that it was anything more than physical attraction anyway. 

Waving goodnight to the others, it was easy enough to linger in the upstairs hall when she found his room. Mallory was sure she had heard his door close earlier, yet it was ajar now, and she eyed inside with innocent curiosity. 

It was dark, and essentially, plain, the walls bare. He had not unpacked his bags, with the suit he had worn the day before sprawled on the floor. He himself was asleep, wearing a deep blue dressing gown. His arms were wrapped around himself in a mock imitation of a hug, and she remembered how tightly he had held her before. She noticed that his face was much more friendly when he wasn’t awake—he already seemed kind enough, but now, he was something she didn’t want to forget. 

When he started to seem restless, she left from the spot where she had been looking, cursing herself for acting like a stalker. She knew she had to keep herself in check, before she seemed more crazy than him, before she fell into fully fledged infatuation. He was obviously not interested. 

She felt tired enough, and the pure darkness outside was telling of the time. Her usual routine was abandoned as she collapsed into her bed, focusing on the moon visible from her window until she finally drifted away. 

There was a drastic difference between her nightmares and reality. Mallory had experienced them long enough that she had been able to know the difference—and, on most nights, she was conscious. Her assurance that nothing was real did not take away her fear, but she had managed to pull herself through until every morning. 

The backdrop was always the same. 

She wandered through the ruins of Robichaux’s Academy for Exceptional Young Ladies, a shadow among the real life shapes of her peers. She recognised them all, yet she could not scream or cry, could only watch and walk as if her body was not her own. Perhaps it was not. 

Stopping at where would usually be the entrance to the building, she leant down. Of where would usually be an empty space, there was another body, adorned with a beautiful dress and the jewels and flowers she had loved in life. 

Mallory lay dead at the foot of her home, alone. She could only think of the fairytale, Sleeping Beauty—but this was no story, and she was not asleep. As the light returned to her view, and she opened her eyes, she could only close them again, and try to think of nothing at all.


	3. the fragility of it all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mallory tries to get past this newer Michael—she had wanted him to come out of his shell, but had not anticipated what it would bring.

Michael did not speak to her in the weeks following their encounter.

She had found a certain routine in avoiding him, and it was easy enough to acclimate to it. He would eat as soon as she left, she would leave the room as he came in—it was a sort of dance between the two of them, and they bonded silently over their mutual avoidance. 

With the prospect of an apocalypse-free future upon them all, the normal happenings at Robichaux had begun. Mallory herself had been tutored one-to-one; taught Transmutation by Zoe, Pyrokenisis by Madison. 

She had become aware, at some point, that she was being groomed into the Role of Supreme. There came a certain time where she was aware of her ability of the Seven Wonders, and had no more opportunities to doubt her skill. Cordelia had fared well for the moment, but it was painful to watch her clutch her hand to her heart, to complain of dizzy spells and aches. 

They both knew of the future that would come, but only one was willing to accept it. 

It was nearing October when they had been required to do a collective project. As much as she favoured individual work, her fears had been set into motion when she had been told they would be sorted into pairs—an anxiety that stemmed back from High School, as the social outcast made to mingle with people she didn’t know. 

Michael stood, a shadowy figure in the corner. It was obvious in the few months he had been a student that he had grown out of his shell; he had friends, now, a constant company that she tried to forget about. She wasn’t unpopular—she had Coco, for one—but it almost shocked her that who was supposed to be their enemy by fate had turned into an accomplice. 

That, and she almost liked him when he had been shy. 

“Mallory with Michael.” 

His curt grin at the words was not something she had expected, and it barely matched her mouth that hung agape. In terms of academia, it was useful that they had been paired together—but for her own comfort, she cursed whoever had been responsible for creating the little groups. 

Perhaps a while ago, she would have been happy to take this opportunity to make him feel at home, but he had already settled his feet down and dug his roots into what seemed the entirety of New Orleans.

Was that why he was so smug?

“So...the history of transformations. What have you got here?” 

He sighed the words, leaving over her shoulder to eye what she had written. The few notes made him tut, and felt a bubble of annoyance turn into one of pure frustration. She had taken the time to think through her writing, rather than reading unnecessary facts from a book and laughing to herself. 

The little noise that came from his fingers brushing open the textbook again willed her to put down her pen, angling her body so she could fix him with a glare. He had the same shit eating grin—full with some sort of desire to push her buttons, like an incessant toddler manipulating his parents. 

“In 1890, Eloise Cunningham discovered, at her home in Oxford, that she had the ability to change at will into a bluebird. She was one of the first documented to display this magical talent, and then followed her ancestors, with some other witches being able to command transformation to certain other animals at will.” 

She knew that his eyes trailing down the page had taken in the exact words she had just declared, and her cheeks burned as he took her in with some sort of curiosity—of pride or embarrassment, she didn’t know. 

“You memorised that?” 

Her curt nod made him chuckle, and she noted again the drastic difference between the Michael she had talked to in the grass outside, and the one that regarded her with such a strange look. She wasn’t sure which one she preferred, for the man now was so open to her, made her feel as if she was the one withdrawing. 

Mallory remembered his former outburst to her, and so she looked down again to her notes, scribbling furiously in an undignified way when compared to her former cursive. She couldn’t be the girl who gave into praise from a guy, who relished each inch of it as if it was a gift. Any gift from him could double up as a curse. 

His breath was still hot on her skin, and she tried to ignore the adulterated need the feeling gave her. 

“You know, Mallory, that we’re supposed to work together?” 

She nodded again, stopping her writing yet still avoiding him. It was becoming infuriatingly hard to avoid him when he was so close, when he talked to her as if they were friends, or enemies, or anything but strangers.

“Teamwork makes a good little witch. I’m sure you’re the best they have.” 

He stated it as if it was a fact, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he had been paying attention to her from the shadowy corners he had always hid in, from the places she couldn’t see. Maybe he was just trying to intimidate her, but it felt different than that. She heard genuinity in his words, even some sort of kindness. 

Why did he always know how to put her in this position? He was right, he was completely right when he said she was the best witch they had, like she was some weapon—but he was wrong in the way he treated her, as if she was a little girl to give into him only when he wanted. 

No, he should have given her what she wanted a long time ago if he wanted to play that game. She had been owed it from the day he had left his mark on her; in the form of dark, purple blotches. He owed her for the nights she had to see them on her arms and wonder why he had done what he had done.

“I’m sure you find your teamwork in more unconventional places, Michael.” 

She was sure she was not crossing a line, but it was fun enough to watch his blue eyes shimmer more with that unidentified emotion. The shrug he gave her was not an answer to her prods into his private life—because he had seen him hang out with those girls, had seen him so very close to them—but simply a maybe. 

“Maybe I do, Mal.“

Her concentrated fury was broken by a cough from the back of the room, Queenie coming in to check their progress. It was entirely possible that she had been the one that had paired them up, as the organiser of the study guide—the idea made Mallory wonder if the other knew of their ongoing feud.

She wished, not for the first time, that they could have all been as cautious with him as they had been a year ago. The precise traits that made him so enticing—his intelligence, his wit, his friendliness—could have very well been inherited from his father down below. 

Regardless of his heritage, she saw right through him. His intentions could have been to gain their trust or gain what was between their legs, but whatever they were, he couldn’t have been who he seemed. It wasn’t possible. 

The footsteps resting directly behind them stopped, and she smiled as nicely as she could when the older witch leaned down to inspect them. Michael followed suit, and she envied his flawless ability to seem so collected in every situation. He could handle pressure like nobody could—or at least better than herself, who had been handed her portion of social anxiety when she was a child. 

“Mallory’s been my teacher, actually.” 

She had not expected this second dose of praise; it felt like the verbal alternative to his touch, directed entirely to her. It went straight to her head, and her smile didn’t need to be fixed at this point. No matter her negative thoughts about him, his every positive comment to her made her feel giddy; lightheaded. 

With Queenie satisfied, she left to go visit somebody else, leaving an insufferable silence that almost seemed to speak. Her motivation to distract herself in her work was long gone—and, again, the roles were reversed, with him pouring into his own writing as if it was so bad to talk to her. 

This game was dangerous, she knew it. 

He left after a while without a word, with their full notebooks enough proof that they had been successful in their research. His lecture on teamwork was unnecessary, for they had both proved to each other that they could work perfectly well together with the only communication their breathing. 

Their work was not quite over. News came from rumours—that they would be set in pairs for the rest of the year, and that they wouldn’t be rotated. Mallory had been glad she hadn’t seen her partner in the time it was official, that he hadn’t been there to flash her that smile that made her feel as if she was sinking in her own body. 

It was the topic of healing magic that had brought them both back to their second meeting. 

Her curiosity had turned out to be her enemy, and the lingering reminder of the wound he had fixed clung to her—when it seemed like they were on okay terms, she had decided that her caution would no longer outweigh her questions. 

“How did you do that?” 

The look he had gave her was another one of his unreadable ones, one that she had learnt to deal with whenever she approached him—or, as a rarity, that he approached her. Mallory could imagine she had told him almost everything about herself, not one to turn down when asked something. 

He had asked how she felt about potentially being the Supreme. About her own healing magic. About her hobbies. The interest didn’t seem like it was there as he nodded along and listened to her, but she had learnt a long time ago that he wasn’t a book she could simply read by his cover. 

“You try it.” 

Taking her hand, he directed her to a small cut on her finger, obviously not a fresh wound yet still red enough to see. Against her better judgement, she flexed her fingers, feeling his soft skin against her own—he pursed his lips, directing her to close them around his hand. 

“Try by imagining a string between the two of us. Each side is equal, balanced, yet when you tug it one way or the other-”

Mallory gasped, feeling the tug he had described. It was not completely physical, yet it flowed through her entire being—she felt the energy coarse through her, flowing from her heart, her mind, and through the invisible cord connecting them both. It was a power transfer, for as she gave him her energy, all that she had, he gave her something better. Something true.

She had been, this time, the one to break the hold. Her desire to inspect his hand and see what she had left was inhuman, entirely out of her control, but he did not try to stop her as she again ran her hand along his own. The metaphorical link between their bodies did not feel as if it had disappeared. It felt more intense than ever. 

“You’re strong. I can feel it.” 

A whisper of the words was enough to make her shiver, but she did not know the sense behind his words. No matter her strength, it was incomparable to his, it came from her mortality. His power came from heaven and hell, from somewhere she could not comprehend—but, for him, she wanted to understand. 

Neither could bear the silence that had become their normal. It was the first night they had come to an understanding, and the fragility of it was something she hoped he had not wanted to lose either.


	4. louisiana winters

“Why the long face?” 

If Michael Langdon was going to patronise her one more time, she was going to go _insane._

In fact, Mallory was pretty sure that was his intention. Now that he had denied himself of whatever being the antichrist meant, he had become a tormentor of young women and work partners, which _had_ to include her. 

The relentless questions and statements and know it all facts had made her try to change her academic bond with him twice, to no avail. It was as if she was in school again, a kid being told that when she had a job, she would have to tolerate the people she didn’t even like, even the ones she liked to look at a little too much. 

Did those jobs include becoming a full-time-Supreme? She doubted it. 

Her only benefit was the idea she had bested him. Regardless of his nature from birth, she had been handed her powers from the good in the world, and had again been the one to disprove the bullshit theory of the Male Supreme—when said Male Supreme wouldn’t _shut up,_ it was hard to keep up the good reputation of being his aptly named good little witch. 

“Do you want me to tell your girlfriends how you can’t recite the full alphabet, or no?” 

Mallory had never had much of an issue defending herself, but every single insult she had tried to shoot him with only warranted her a childish giggle and a know-it-all glance. She had decided that his ego must have covered to protect against any criticism a long time ago. 

Again, he snorted, handing her his notes to double check. 

As much as she thought she knew him, it was becoming more and more hard to decipher his intentions. She couldn’t help but feel that he had sussed her out a long time ago, that he knew every inch of her when he pierced her with blue eyes. 

Maybe that was what she wanted, and he probably knew that too. 

His tilted head was angled to the snow outside the window, and it was all too obvious he was pointing out her—and _his—_ reluctance to make stupid snowmen and angels. It had been four days in the rarity of Louisiana Winter, and she hadn’t ventured out of the house for a single minute in any one of them. Michael hadn’t either, as much as she knew. 

“I don’t like the cold.”

Her quick defence was something he didn’t pick up on, maybe for her sake. 

“Me neither.”

She knew they had grown up relatively close to each other, even if his childhood had lasted a lot less longer than her own. It was hard to imagine them on the same road, in the same store—a teen with a young boy's mind, and a Mallory who was nearing her own graduation. 

It was as if the Universe had set in measures to ensure they would have met, whether it was in Los Angeles, Robichaux’s, a battleground. The idea of fate was a strange thing, but it made her nauseous to imagine that she was destined to be tormented by an asshole for the rest of her life. The existence of Satan had almost assured, in her mind, he had planted his son in her lap just to make her doubt her own sanity. 

His hand lingered a little as he rested it, brushing that fine line between touching and teasing her. The last time he had decided to give her _that_ gift had been the time he had taught her how to heal him. Even the borderline hurtful things he had said to her in that lilting tone over two months couldn’t replace that _one day_ when he had shown her how they were connected. 

“Mal?”

Michael waved a hand over her face, as if she had been asleep. The lack of what, admittedly, wasn’t actual physical contact made her exhale the breath she had been holding in—and shiver, trying to cover up the blush that she knew had claimed her cheeks. 

It went straight to her head when he called her Mal. It was so casual, so normal, as if they had known each other forever and they were on the best terms they could’ve been. No matter what he said, he could’ve added that short little word, and it would’ve been all she heard. 

If he had really been able to read her mind, he would have probably told her to keep her personal dilemmas to herself. He had never really been emotional, simply the perfect example of someone who liked to cause trouble—or could seduce with the click of a finger. 

“I’m going outside.” 

Setting his pen down, it was hard not to stare incredulously as he simply picked up his coat, ran his hands through his hair, and stood up. His rants about the childish nature of playing in the snow, of how the cold made his muscles seize up—they were disregarded like the click of a button. If she had not been so used to his unpredictability, she would have told him he was crazy. 

God, he _was_ crazy. He had always been. It was who he was. 

“You coming?” 

He reached his hands out, wiggling them as if she would grab him and let him whirl her around like a fairytale princess. Even what he was wearing wouldn’t keep him warm, much less her own thin sweater—but the shit-eating grin was gone, or at least more gentle. He looked simultaneously in control and wildly out of it, like the day he had towered over her and asked for her forgiveness. 

She had never quite let go of the idea that there was two of him. The shy Michael, the frustrating Michael, the Boy and the Man and the person she liked in between them all. They were all so different, but they were all him. 

Mallory didn’t like the idea of getting frostbite just to appease her desire, but she didn’t really have much of a choice—he grabbed her, earning a yelp of surprise as he wrapped his hands around her midriff and carried her like a feather, swaying her slightly as if she was a child. 

He had never much seemed strong, at least physically, but she could feel the power as he held her; not once did doubt cross her mind. She simply felt safe, as safe as she had found a bed when she was completely free from somebody else’s wrath. 

If they really had become enemies, her body would’ve betrayed her straight away. She would have devoted herself to him if she was weaker.

Whooping with joy as he set her down on a bench, he laid her head on his lap, hair The cold was _cold,_ but the sensation was nothing against the comfort of being in his hold. It was a breath of fresh air to know he had let himself go—that he had cut her free with him. 

She tried not to let out a whine when he moved her carefully, getting up to grab a scoop of snow and shape it into a circle. The empty warmth of where he had once been sat with her felt wrong, as if he was depriving her of sustenance; it was only when she got closer to him that she felt it again.

It was hard to wrap her head around why she had ever deprived herself of his company for so long.

_”Wait, Wait, Wait, Wait-“_

Her mind registered all too slow that he had been aiming for her in the first place, her daydream faltering her instincts to duck. He had hit her right in the chest—the flimsy material of her clothes essentially leaving alone her to the elements.

She tried to throw the snowball she had been making at him, but she missed every time. It was easy enough to suspect foul play, based on the minute flicks of the wrist she had managed to pick up on. 

“You’re a dirty cheat.” 

Raising his eyebrow, 

His hum was his maybe. It was his defence, his constant in every topic. _Maybe_ I was calling you an idiot. _Maybe_ I’ve been sleeping with those girls. _Maybe_ I’m driving you crazy. 

She leaned her head to rest on his shoulder, imitating what she had seen his other friends do. Perhaps it had always been her imagination of his sour face—but whether she had seen it then or not, he looked as happy as she felt, as boyish as she had ever seen him. As strong as he was when he carried her, she felt as if he needed _her._ It was an innocent prospect that she couldn’t quite let go. 

“Are you scared of being the Supreme?” 

His gaze was faraway in the distance, but she felt him focus on her—he had given her his attention. 

Mallory didn’t know the answer. Her newfound life as a witch; a witch capable of magic that the rest of them weren’t, was one full of secrets that she wasn’t sure she was ever able to answer. It didn’t seem fair—even when it felt so good to feel the rush of energy, the life on the earth whisper to her, she didn’t _understand._

Michael was just another thing she would never figure out, and she wasn’t even sure if there was an answer. The most complex creations were best left a mystery, whether for peace, for war, for love.

“I’m terrified.” 

If there was one thing she had learnt about him, it was that he was just as scared as her. 

Resting his hands on her hair, she didn’t feel the worry—the only sensations that mattered were the ones he granted to her, a divine being gifting her all she needed, even if she didn’t deserve it. Mallory was sure she didn’t, because it felt too good to melt into his body, into whatever he was. 

“You don’t need to worry. You’re a good little witch—and I’m sure you’ll do a better job than I could have.” 

He protected her. She protected him. It was a mantra she couldn’t quite let go of, for her own sanity, for the emotions she couldn’t comprehend and wished she didn’t have to. How easy would it have been if she leant in and touched him the way she wanted—or did it really matter what was easy? If he had shown her the kindness she had not expected, she wouldn’t have needed to doubt herself. 

She needed a man. A monster. A boy. A warlock. 

_I need you, Michael._

“It’s so cold, Mal.” 

His complaints only made her close her eyes and try to will the heat to reach the both of them. The silence that followed told her she had succeeded. 

That night, he had stayed with her until she had told him she was going to bed. When she had drifted to sleep, she thought she could hear him through the walls—that, maybe; they could hear each other. 


	5. inhibitions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Michael proves his faith.

When Madison Montgomery had been denied the opportunity to go clubbing on New Year’s Eve by the entirety of the Coven, she had planned, albeit suspiciously, a party. 

It had been to Mallory’s annoyance that Michael had wiggled his way into her inner circle—much more that he refused to tell her  _ anything.  _ The imagination of a drug-fuelled nightmare was the most accurate thing she could conjure up, but he had assured her that no, they would not be eating anything laced. 

Then again, who knew? She could easily see him feeding her some weird hallucinogenic and giggling like a maniac; a laugh she had become well acquainted with the time he had planted a  _ rat  _ in her  _ bed,  _ only one of the practical jokes he had played on her in the space of two months or so. 

Rodents aside, his tight-lipped secrecy was something she had never expected him to maintain. He didn’t seem the type to be able to keep secrets to himself, blurting out stupid things to her at the most opportune times...yet he hushed her when she tried to pry information out of him. 

She, however, wasn’t the only one anxious. Almost every single one of them had watched the unconventional pair—the boy wonder and the “actress”—retreat into privacy to discuss whatever they were planning, and held their breath whenever they thought about it. As much as Mallory perceived them as a family, it was hard to trust each other, much more for the witches who had been there for years before her. 

Her little trust had waned more and more thin with the less and less time she had seen him. It was hard enough to ask him to spend time with her, much less when he seemed so preoccupied with another witch—she hoped he noticed her lingering stares, she hoped he cared. Jealousy was not something she wanted to admit to, but it was hard to put up a front of anything else. 

“Do you think they... you know?” 

Referencing Michael and Madison, she brought her fingers to her lips, mimicking obscenities she had tried not to imagine at all before between the two of them. Queenie’s primary sarcastic observation had almost definitely been a joke, but the words—in front of everyone, as if they meant nothing, had made her blood boil. 

With barely a week left until the end of the year, it was easier and easier to retreat into her rage and avoid him just as she had in the beginning. 

When he had left  _ that  _ room once again, the room the two had spent at least an hour in every day, she hadn’t been hesitant to grab his hand and pull him away to her own private space. The usual awkwardness couldn’t have mattered to her—nor could her usual reputation, that of a celibate angel who had never given into envy. 

He fixed her with a confused look, almost innocent: she matched him with one of accusation. 

“Exactly  _ how  _ long does it take to plan  _ one  _ party?” 

Like that, the confusion faded. Mallory was used to seeing him smug, proud, in his torments of her—but he was neither of these as he rested back on the chair he had fallen back on, hand resting under his chin as if he truly was contemplating her words. 

“Are you jealous?”

The perfect opportunity to mock her—he hadn’t taken it, but the question was humiliating enough to double as an insult. She felt herself blush, an answer enough to something that they both knew. 

_ Pompous asshole.  _

If she had ever wished for him to have one more ability than her, it would be for him to hear her.  _ Really  _ hear her. It would have spared her all the things she was too afraid to tell him—and the shame of letting them out in the world. Everything about him, every curse, every need, she wanted him to hear and, at the very least, let her down slowly. 

He looked her up and down, the corner of his mouth perked up in a small smile that reminded her somewhat of a puppy. 

“Madison’s hooking up with Zoe. You really don’t need to worry.”

“ _ Michael!” _

When her brain had once been hardwired to loathe any girl in his bed, it had quite easily malfunctioned at his simple revelation, uttered so nonchalantly that she wasn’t even sure he knew what he was saying. 

Zoe and Madison. Surprisingly, it wasn’t the strangest thing she had heard in her life. 

“You can’t tell me that—it’s none of my business—I—”

His hand on her shoulder made her quiet, somewhat against her will; she leaned in again like every time, short-circuiting to sensory pleasure and comfort.

For the first time in a long time, he left it there, giving her what she so desperately wanted. The reassurance had flooded in, and she couldn’t even find it in herself to care about the revelation; that he wasn’t interested in her, she wasn’t interested in him.  _ That she didn’t have to worry,  _ his own words. 

She could easily see why he had suddenly become Madison’s confidante, that she had managed to trust him—even if it was a bad decision. Mallory would have invested in him certain things herself if he had let her, but the few times he had acted like an ordinary friend, she always realised how much she didn’t want to lose him.

Taking a deep breath, she tangled herself out of his hold, leaning against the wall in what she hoped was a casual pose. 

_ You don’t have to worry.  _

“Since you’ve spilled the beans on that, can you at least tell me the dress code?” 

Michael’s eyes on her shouldn’t have been as intense as it was—but she had hoped, in the tiniest corner of her mind, that he would have looked at her like that much more, that she would easily be able to locate some sort of affection in those crystal blues. He couldn’t have been completely oblivious, lack of common sense aside, of the way she looked at him from time to time. 

She had heard that love would always be reciprocated in the end, but those were the far-fledged fantasies of either the lonely or the blind. If life was such a fairytale, she wouldn’t have found herself in such close company with the damned  _ Antichrist.  _

If she had not known he had been born to a human mother, she would have thought him someone from another time, another world. She had once heard Zoe compare him to a famous painting; The Fallen Angel, heralding just as much irony as it could have. Mallory herself saw a greek statue brought to life, the divine brought to the world in art, and later, in flesh. 

Beauty had been something his father had intended for him, yet she had prayed to his enemy that he would fail in corrupting his destiny, that he would always be a part of her instead of the evil he was made for. If there was light, she had hoped it would grant her mercy and keep him safe. 

Pursing his lips, he sighed, regarding her with that far away look that could have been one of humility, appreciation, or any other human emotion. It was unfair in every sense of the word, how she  _ knew  _ he could read her perfectly and yet he would always remain a mystery. 

“Wear something pretty.” 

She didn’t know what  _ his  _ definition of pretty was. The only time he had paid her a genuine compliment on her appearance was the time she had plaited her hair—he had told her she looked innocent, and, later, compared her to a bird. His analogy was weird, but it was much better than his usual drawl to her of “the good little witch,” almost always used to mock her. 

When she had retorted that she wasn’t a character in the Wizard of the Oz, he had admitted he had never watched it. The usual pop-culture references they all used from time to time went straight over his head, and it was almost sad to see him realise he had missed out on so much, even after they tried to help him: if she couldn’t wrap her head around his actual age, he definitely couldn’t have. She had  _ seen  _ with her eyes that he was impressionable just like any other child, and yet he still had a grip on maturity, was still intelligent just like the rest of them. 

Even if he had given up the occupation of destroying the world, he was still perfectly able in driving people to borderline madness, her included. His heightened time with Madison of all people would have come with some new lessons—for better, or for worse. 

* * *

Zoe had helped her decide on a dress. 

She had never been the type to differ from her usual style—she liked femininity, liked the traditional attire of her Coven so much that she had never really tried to venture outside of it. There had never really been a need to; blending in with her peers had been yet another step to feeling as if she was a part of them. 

Mallory had never thought she would put in the extra effort for a man who had formerly been her natural enemy.  _ Could still be.  _

No one had completely let go of what Michael was born into. Even  _ she  _ couldn’t; her nightmares clinging to whatever semblance of a monster he could be, from a murderer to the person who broke her heart. 

The boy who had let her lay on his lap, who had reassured her when she was scared, was always going to be linked in some way to the man he could have been, was meant to be. A mistake in his code had landed him in her life, and a correction could easily take him out of it. 

He had been brought to them from his grief, grief they had inflicted. He had killed and plotted against them from the start. She had never been more willing to forget someone’s past, to forget their accountability, just so she could be blind in her faith. 

When she was alone, she wondered if he was happier this way, with them—or if he would always be missing the parts of himself he had denied. Cordelia had seen goodness in him, but goodness could easily be lost, to a much higher price in his case. 

“Damn, girl, you are  _ glowing!”  _

The praise from Queenie wasn’t the first she had received. She had spared even her usual flower crown for the placement of a braided one, a hairstyle she hadn’t even tried to replicate since she had been a child...there was something reassuring in the nostalgia, welcoming the new year with something old. 

In line with her white dress, she really hoped he wouldn’t compare her to Glenda the Good Witch now. 

Madison was waiting at the bottom of stairs, decked out in elegance that she probably knew nobody else could match—at least, she hoped. Now that she had debunked her theory, she could easily see her and Michael as a platonic duo, the proud, hot as hell two that came from the pits of hell itself. 

_ God,  _ he had every reason to be proud, every reason to be able to guess her jealousy and guess correctly. 

“I cordially invite each and every one of you to the greatest events of your miserable little lives.”

Her passionate desire to clap back was something she could die down yet again—after all, it was true in a sense. She had never been the type to be invited to those all-out, drug-fuelled parties in High School, nor had yearned to: if that made her miserable, so be it.

The sudden blare of pop music from the lounge made even the other witches turn their head: a steady stream of “ _ to the left, to the left”  _ breaking the formal approach she was sure Madison was going for. She didn’t even need to look to know he had probably chosen some stupid pop playlist, bright smile in the hopes he had pleased them all. 

Her barely concealed anger was enough to convince her that he had probably failed at something in their planning. 

As the music grew louder, it seemed cue enough to follow the sound. It was plainly obvious that effort had been put into decorating—balloons, glitter, food, the prime example of every lavish fantasy, the wet dream of a young actress with the rather  _ small  _ touches of someone else. 

Michael had already sat down with what seemed like a plate of his own food, but he retired it when he realised he wasn’t alone, brightening even at the murderous face of Madison Montgomery. 

“It’s a party!” 

His grin was, again, the evidence of his half-lived childhood, as much as a stranger to it all as Mallory was. She eyed the plate of lasagna with disdain, meeting his own eyes with all but a wider smile, hoping it was approval she saw and not the promise of more teasing. 

“No  _ shit,  _ Sherlock.”

To what was ruined to Madison, she couldn’t find it in herself to care—nor, it seemed, could anyone else, least of all Michael. The fact that he didn’t just spare his tactics for her, that he didn’t base his personality solely on being a dick to make her life harder, was reassuring, reassuring enough that she didn’t avoid him like she often did. 

“You did pretty well, for a...what, eleven year old?” 

He surveyed her again, but if he had something to say, he didn’t share it. It was her want that persuaded her to believe she had succeeded in  _ wearing something pretty,  _ the only point she had to prove his own. 

“I have a career in party planning. You really do look pretty, by the way.” 

Could he read her mind, or what? 

Passing her a glass of wine, it was easy enough to accept it; downing the drink before she could let hazy regrets sweep her up and cloud her judgement. He looked on with lazy approval, and she wonderedq through the praise if he had offered her the drink for a reason. 

It was sheer luck that she managed to hear his next words, a low tone that wasn’t wholly intended to be picked up. 

“You should avoid the punch.” 

And he knew she was a lightweight, too. What a guess. 

His control over the music choices were hilarious, to say the least—ranging from classical from the 1900s, to Elvis Presley, to even Ed Sheeran. The range was something he was proud of, trying to pick up even the most introverted of people to dance with him. When he offered his hand to  _ her,  _ she jumped at the opportunity. 

If she had been weak on the effects of alcohol, he was the worst. She had never quite doubted before that he didn’t know her weakness for him; he was a smug bastard, and it would have made perfect sense if his demonic education included making her buckle for him.

Clearly, however, it had not come with complimentary dancing lessons. 

As the mood of the songs changed, it was hard not to laugh at his reluctance to slow down—she was reminded of her elementary school dances, yet now with this grown man that was so content to jump about to love songs. 

“Michael, you  _ know  _ you’re supposed to hold my waist.”

He blinked, that confusion of being told better obvious. 

Slowly, Mallory guided his hands to her, feeling them flex as if he was terrified of the consequences. When she felt him relax, she leaned in, closing the distance between them and hoping he would understand that he was doing well. The feeling of teaching him something—of granting him something, something he couldn’t refute and pretend to know better, was better than that of satisfaction. 

As the music stopped, it was easy enough to drag him away, the pounding of the sudden rap music enough for her ears to bear. It might have been strange on a normal day to take her to his room—even he would have labelled it as an invasion of her privacy, ever the gentlemen when he really wanted to be—but she didn’t care about normal days, nor the party he had devoted so much into. 

After closing the door, she sat on the bed, pulling off her heels with a sigh. 

“Did you get me drunk, Michael?” 

His laugh was her confirmation, and with the sharp edge of her sober self gone, she couldn’t help but thank the world that she had accepted Pinot Grigio he had offered her. What fun was normalcy on New Year’s Eve? If he had lost his inhibitions in the space of two weeks, she could easily let go of them for once night. 

The soft hum of the music below was a good enough accomplice, mindful of not to leave them in the awkwardness of complete silence. For her, words meant nothing—they were too easily misunderstood, too easily corrupted by emotion. If he had pressed and pressed her, she might have admitted something that she wouldn’t have at any other time. 

Mallory hoped he would have pity on her drunken brain, even as it craved the company of his voice. She was granted it when he sat next to her, like he always did. 

“Do you believe in god?”

If she hadn’t known better, he would have sounded like a preacher, hoping she had faith. If she hadn’t known better, she would have said yes. 

She was sure that if god  _ did  _ pull the strings, he wouldn’t care about any of the things they had all been through, that he was no better than his enemy. The suffering in the world had not been stopped, the beauty hadn’t been perfected—they were doomed to live in their flaws, in the pain they had all been granted.

Mallory shook her head. 

“Do you believe in the devil?” 

They were all so sure they had saved Michael, but it hadn’t been in the name of God, nor Satan. It had been to stop the suffering he could’ve unleashed—and she hoped, maybe, they had saved him from his own suffering. What but a human being would ever accept a second chance at good? 

“I believe in  _ you,  _ don’t I?” 

She laughed, settling more in the seat beside him and fixing him with as much sarcasm as she could manage. 

Michael was the one to lean in, a fervent move—if she had ever kept the fear she had once held for him, she would have leaned away. His charity to her was the simple union of his lips to hers, a tangible gift of the affection she had been begging for ever since she had known him. 

Though she wished this wasn’t the boy that had killed and hurt and broken, she would still have never hoped for anyone else. 

He was the exception to every single moral she had tried to collect, every ideology that she had thought made her a good person. She was sure that he could have betrayed her and she would still be yearning for the touch he gave her—that the blood that trailed behind him meant nothing if he chose  _ her, only her.  _ Michael was the living proof that she was selfish. 

When he pulled back, he looked at her with guilty eyes, lacking in the teasing nature he had surrounded her with. Mallory had believed there were two of him; the boy, and the man, but she had come to realise they were one and the same. 

She knew that he would have apologised if she had let him speak, yet it was easier to repay him in kind, taking his hands and running her own over them: mimicking his kiss as gently as she could, linking them in every way she knew how. 

_ I believe in you. I do.  _

He had already proved to her his faith, even when she couldn’t feel it. He had divulged secrets to uncover her envy, had tried to bring her up when she was terrified about her own magic. Mallory could only hope he would let it always be a transaction—that he would let her in, that he could receive what she wanted him to know he deserved. 

“Thank you.” 

His soft whisper matched her exact thoughts, the grateful relief of not being alone in her need. Guilt was as heady a thing as desire, and if either could succumb, the progress she had hoped they had made could be lost—she didn’t want to ponder the demons in their past, nor in their future. It was needless when the present was as good as it had ever been for her, when she had been granted her fantasies in reality. 

It was only when he gestured to the clock that she realised the line had crossed between the last and the next year.

With his hands still resting on her own, it was easy enough to relax in the darkness; her old phobias weak against her newest desires. She could have stayed like that, with the utmost proof that she wasn’t alone, that she wouldn’t be left to herself. 

Reaching up to his ear, it was easy enough to sigh the words she had always planned on saying, regardless of the results of the night. Words that were substitutes for others, others she hadn’t allowed herself ponder for a long time. 

“Happy New Year, Michael.” 


End file.
